


Fractures

by andafaith



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bars and Pubs, Blood and Injury, Complicated Plot, Dark, F/M, Firewhiskey, Gen, Intrigue, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prejudice, Prostitution, Thriller, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-06-09 05:30:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6892102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andafaith/pseuds/andafaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, Post-Cave Scene in HBP. Harry thought he was free when he escaped the cave and he was so very wrong. This is a delusion – a <strong>nightmare</strong>. It has to be. But to <em>what</em> end? Perhaps everything is not at all what it seems…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> **Author’s Note:** First of all, I'd like to thank my betas, Rogue25, RAfan2421, and TheDarkLord, for all of their fantastic help! This fic spawned from an idea I’ve had in my head since 2003. I’ve tried writing it many times before, between numerous releases of Potter books, and it never worked out for me. This is my fifth attempt – or, possibly, seventh. Writing this is like reuniting with an old high school lover after they’ve had a large amount of plastic surgery and a sex change. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Anything that you recognize, I do not own. There are a large number of writers, directors, actors, production companies, and publishing companies that deserve a lot of credit, including – but not limited to – J.K. Rowling, Larry Karaszewski, Scott Alexander, Matt Greenberg, Stephen King, Thomas Harris, Michael Cooney, Mikael Håfström, Peter Webber, James Mangold, John Cusack, Gaspard Ulliel, Dimension Films, Young Hannibal Productions, Carthago Films, Dino De Laurentiis Company, Sony Pictures, Warner Bros., Scholastic Books, Bloomsbury Books, and Raincoast Books. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All direct and paraphrased quotes are cited where applicable and general citations of my inspirations will be included at the end of this fic upon completion.

 

**-}{-}{-}{-**

**I. The Storm**

**-}{-}{-}{-**

 

 

“It’s going to be all right, sir,” Harry says over and over again, hitching Dumbledore’s uninjured arm further around his shoulders for a better hold. Carefully, Harry guides him back into the icy seawater that fills the crevice in the cliff, supporting most of his weight. “We’re nearly there… I can Apparate us both back… Don’t worry…”₁

 

“I am not worried, Harry,” Dumbledore assures him, his voice strong despite the freezing water. “I’m with you.”₁

 

Shivering and soaking to the bone, yet thankfully out of the cave, Harry concentrates harder than he had ever done upon his destination: _Hogsmeade_. Closing his eyes and gripping Dumbledore as tightly as he can, he steps into the feeling of horrible compression.₁

 

He knows the Apparation works before he opens his eyes: The smell of salt and the sea breeze left, replaced by pouring rain, further drenching his clothes and weighing him down. But there’s something wrong. Dumbledore’s arm is no longer over his shoulder and the heaviness of supporting him is gone.₁

 

Harry’s eyes snap open and his nerves spike with panic.

 

He’s _alone_ , staring out into a flooded, empty hedge-lined field that’s definitely _not_ Hogsmeade.

 

A flash of lightning strikes alarmingly close, shaking the ground around him and startling him. Abruptly, he whirls around, gauging his surroundings. He’s standing at the side of a darkened country road, empty save for the light of a building not far up ahead, which he can only just make out through the heavy rain. Lightning flickers and booms through the sky above his head, the thunder loud enough to make his ears ring and he flexes his jaw trying to get them to pop.

 

Taking a deep breath, he concentrates again, closing his eyes and clutching his wand. **_Hogsmeade_**. He has to get to Hogsmeade. Perhaps Dumbledore ended up there and, for some reason, Harry didn’t make it himself. That had to be it.

 

Stepping into the sensation, he feels the thickness of magic briefly squeezing down upon him, but it doesn’t work. Tight bands surround him and suddenly release. It’s as if his Apparation spits him right back out and he stumbles to keep his footing at the side of the road. Lightning strikes hard and fast in the field behind him, forcefully popping his ringing ears and landing so close this time that every hair on his body stands at attention, his skin prickling in the aftermath.

 

He has to get out of there, but – even after concentrating harder than he’d ever had to before – nothing comes of it. The sensation of a thick rubber tube surrounding him doesn’t even _begin_ and he’s left stepping awkwardly onto the road, one foot on the ground and one in the air and feeling more frustrated than when he’d started learning how to Apparate.

 

The third flash of lightning that hits the ground makes him jump, backing away from where it had hit, just as close as the last time. Out of instinctive self-preservation more than his own consciousness, his feet start to carry him quickly toward the building up ahead and his swampy, water-logged trainers squidge and squeak the faster he runs. It’s too dangerous outside. He’s got to get out of the storm before he, himself, gets struck – or before it hits close enough to gravely injure him.

 

Stopping to catch his breath, Harry reaches the landing of the stairs and glances at the sign over the door:

 

**_The Dead Man’s Hand._ **

 

‘ _Well, that’s not ominous at all_ ,’ he thinks with a cynical snort, pushing open the entrance to the gloomy looking establishment.

 

From the moment he enters, the interior immediately reminds him of _The Leaky Cauldron_ , having the notable signs of a magical pub and an alarming lack of Muggle technology. There are steaming cauldrons, which smell delicious and savoury, behind the bar and tables are scattered around the main room. A paybox that dispenses ‘Floo Powder’ – _Only one Knut a handful!_ – sits on the mantle of the fireplace, its hearth surrounded by worn and tattered sofas and chairs. The two dark haired women sitting on barstools, facing away from him, are dressed in long cloaks, chattering away with a large bottle of Firewhiskey between them.

 

Feeling soggier than a drowned rat, Harry performs a drying spell on himself, figuring that even though he’s not with Dumbledore anymore, he’d probably not want Harry to catch his death. He could only be thankful that his botched Apparation led him somewhere magical instead of Muggle and he heads to the fireplace, searching his pockets for a spare Knut and stopping in his tracks.

 

The horcrux! It’s _gone_.

 

He remembers putting it into his pocket just after Dumbledore drank the potion… And he knew he had it there after he’d been attacked by Inferi – remembers the bulk of it against his thigh as he moved…

 

“I wouldn’t use the Floo if I were you. There’s a war storm going on, haven’t you heard?” one of the girls at the bar asks and he turns toward them, his eyes widening and his hands pausing in his pockets, grasping at nothing but spare bits of change and Galleons and lint. 

 

Pansy Parkinson’s haughty pug-like face and Daphne Greengrass’ sharp aristocratic features greet him, though the two girls aren’t staring at him in derision like he’s used to. “Come and join us for a drink. There’s usually not much else you can do in this weather,” Parkinson says with a faint smirk, her eyes appraising him slowly and patting the barstool next to her.

 

“Uh, no… I need to get to Hogsmeade,” Harry declines, his brows furrowing as he pulls a Knut from his pocket. “What are _you_ doing here? Why aren’t you at school?”

 

“School? I think you might have me confused for someone else,” Parkinson replies, her eyebrow arching.

 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Greengrass asks, angling her body toward him and leaning heavily against the bar with a snifter of Firewhiskey in her hand. “Hogsmeade was cut off from the Floo months ago on account of the Snatchers. It’s broom-access only now and you’d be mental to want to fly all the way there.”

 

“Snatchers?” The word niggles at the back of his mind, like he should know what that is, but he blinks the feeling away. “Nevermind,” he quickly dismisses his last question, stepping closer toward the girls. “You don’t have _any_ idea who I am?”

 

Both of them shake their head. “Should we?”

 

“What’s your name?” Greengrass questions. “Maybe I’ve heard of you.”

 

A sinking feeling resonates through his gut. “Harry Potter,” he says slowly, waiting for the usual disdain to surface on their faces, but it never comes.

 

“Well, Harry, I’m Daphne,” Greengrass amiably introduces, gesturing to herself and then Parkinson, “and this is Pansy. Did you get caught in the lightning out there? I’ve heard that the strikes can mess with your memory.”

 

This has to be a dream. Or a nightmare. Maybe he drank the potion instead of Dumbledore. That’s the only explanation: The horcrux is missing, Dumbledore isn’t there. Everything has to be a dream.

 

He quickly lifts up his sleeve, where his skin was scraped from trying to get away from the Inferi, and he pokes at the wound, feeling pain shoot down his arm.

 

Okay, not a dream.

 

Vivid hallucination? Maybe he’s suffering from poison-induced delusions?

 

“That looks pretty nasty – get into a fight with someone?” Parkinson says, turning toward the bar and calling, “Walden? Can you bring me your Healing Kit?”

 

A thin, almost waifish, older man with white-grey hair steps through the partition from the back room behind the bar, carrying a metal box and setting it next to Parkinson. “Vhat did you do? Injure yourzelf again?” the man says in a thick German accent, only then spotting Harry beyond the girls. “Oh, hello. Velcome to _Ze Dead Man’s Hand_ – is zhere anysing I can get you from ze bar?”

 

“The kit’s not for us, it’s for him,” Greengrass explains, reaching across Parkinson for the Healing Kit and pulling out a bottle of dittany. “Come on–” she pats the barstool next to her, “–let’s get that scrape healed up. Give us another glass, Walden. Plenty of Firewhiskey to go ‘round, unless you want something else… Harry? Mind if I call you Harry? Or are you more of a ‘Mr Potter’ type of bloke?”

 

Yes, this _has_ to be a poison-induced delusion. There’s no way in his life that a Slytherin like Daphne Greengrass – or _Pansy_ _Parkinson_ especially – would be this nice to him. But it’s as if they don’t even _know_ who he is, which is something he’d never experienced in the wizarding world in his entire life.

 

“‘Harry’s’ fine,” he hesitantly replies.

 

Stepping up to the bar with a gait not unlike that of an animal crossing a busy motorway, he takes a seat next to her, feeling only slightly wary as she grabs his arm and pours dittany over his scrape. The wound hisses, spitting out green smoke as the potion takes effect. A clean snifter is set in front of him by the barman – Walden – and Pansy Parkinson liberally fills it with the amber-coloured alcohol.

 

“So, what happened?” she asks conversationally, taking sips from her own glass, which she had just refilled.

 

“I slipped – fell. It’s nothing,” he vaguely explains with a shrug, watching the scrape heal before his eyes and clutching onto his glass of Firewhiskey. With a deep breath, he swallows a mouthful. It burns down his throat in an all-too-real sensation and he winces from it.

 

If this _isn’t_ a delusion, a lucid dream is also a possibility – an _incredibly_ **_vivid_** lucid dream. It certainly _feels_ like an out-of-body experience, or… that could’ve been the panic.

 

“Ah, well, it _is_ pissing down out there,” Greengrass says, glancing at the rain-soaked windows. Huge droplets of water pelt against glass, forming massive streams. The storm outside only seems to be worsening, the sky alight with constant lightning. However, it’s soundless from inside the bar – probably due to a silencing charm.

 

Brows furrowed, he takes only a small sip from his glass, feeling it slowly start to seep into him. “You mentioned a… war storm earlier, didn’t you? What’s that?”

 

“Did you hit your head when you fell?” Parkinson asks with a faint snort. “They’ve only been going on for the last five years.”

 

“Happens every time the foreign Ministries get together and try to force peace talks between the Pureblood Resistance and the Muggleborn Coalition,” Greengrass clarifies, seeming far more polite than Parkinson. “Messes with our magic – puts everyone on even footing, but it never does any of us any good. Are you an Australian refugee? Your accent doesn’t sound like it, but if you’ve never heard of the war storms…”

 

Harry averts his eyes to his drink, his mind racing. Pureblood Resistance… Muggleborn Coalition. The war. Peace talks. Did he… time travel to the future?

 

No, they would’ve known him if he did. He’d doubtlessly be just as famous in the future. Everyone knew his name even ten years after Voldemort first ‘died’, and Greengrass and Parkinson would surely remember him from school.

 

“Yeah, that’s it. Australia,” he says, latching onto the excuse to explain his ignorance. “I’m originally from here though,” he recovers. “Surrey.”

 

“Dinner service is ready if you vill be haffing it,” Walden interrupts their conversation, loudly clamping a lid down on one of the cauldrons behind the bar. “Vee haff potato soup, a veal stew, cabbage soup viff dumplings, und mashed potatoes und mixed vegetables for sides.”

 

Harry’s stomach grumbles at the thought of food and he digs around in his pocket, setting a Galleon on the bar. “I’ll just take the potato soup.”

 

“Think we should wake our client?” he hears Greengrass whisper to Parkinson.

 

“We’re not his servants,” Parkinson haughtily responds in a low voice. “I don’t care how much he pays.” She then raises her voice, asking the barman for the sides alone.

 

“So… uh – client?” Harry asks as a bowl of soup is put in front of him, along with a pile of change. “What do you do?”

 

He feels a bit mad asking that question. They were _students_ the last time he checked.

 

But they also _knew who he was_ the last time he checked as well.

 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Greengrass drawls before ordering the same as Parkinson. However, she quickly turns back toward him, a flirtatious grin playing at her lips as she parts her cloak just enough to show that she probably doesn’t have much – if _anything_ – on underneath there. The gap of smooth pale skin between her breasts distracts him for a moment. “If we weren’t already booked by Mr. Sleepyhead upstairs, we’d be _all_ _over_ you.”

 

Harry freezes, thickly swallowing a hot mouthful of soup, as her hand traces down his back in a way that makes him feel exposed, like his cloak and shirt aren’t there at all, and he fully comprehends the meaning of her words. The sensation of _everything_ is all-too-real and he downs the rest of his Firewhiskey, trying to snap out of it, but he can feel the buzz of alcohol at the corners of his eyes.

 

It _can’t_ be real.

 

“You’re… erm–”

 

He doesn’t want to say the word aloud.

 

Merlin, what kind of poison-induced delusion _is_ this?

 

He’s had dreams like this before, of course, but not…

 

“We prefer the term ‘escorts’,” Parkinson snootily intones, refilling their glasses. “We’re not your _usual_ Knockturn two-Knut whores.”

 

Greengrass’ mouth curves into a smile around her snifter. “So, what’s _your_ story?” she asks, setting her glass back down and picking up her spoon.

 

“It’s not that interesting. Doubt you’d want to hear it,” he says faintly, busying his mouth with potato soup so he doesn’t have to talk. He has no idea what to say. He should’ve been looking for Dumbledore and the horcrux locket, not sitting there with two people who normally loath him – two prostitutes who are normally students – sharing Firewhiskey and a decent pub meal.

 

He’s thankfully saved by the sound of their ‘client’ walking down the creaky stairs. Greengrass mutters her apologies, saying, “Back to the grind,” and making room between her and Parkinson, ordering yet another glass, this time with ice. Harry’s thankfulness, however, is short-lived.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees _exactly_ who their ‘client’ is and goose pimples rise on his skin as the man nears. He slips into the room like a cold draft. With his hair slightly mussed and haphazardly dressed in pyjama bottoms and a robe, he’s as imposing and handsome as ever – his face a spitting image of how he’d appeared in the memory with Hepzibah Smith, but even more frightening in the flesh.

 

It’s then that Harry realizes that he _had_ to have drunk the potion instead of Dumbledore.

 

This _is_ a delusion – a **nightmare**. But to _what_ end?

 

Tom Riddle smiles his charming smile, his teeth flashing dangerously like the lightning outside. “Thought I’d find you down here,” he says, looking past Harry. His fingers pluck a cigar from his pocket and he lights it with his familiar bone-white wand, draping himself over the barstool between the girls.

 

It’s not a comfort but, if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed from the real world to Harry’s delusion, it’s that Parkinson is the same as ever. She fawns and simpers over Riddle just as she would Malfoy. It’s _who_ she’s simpering over that makes his stomach lurch through the dread lacing his insides.

 

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,” Riddle suddenly addresses him, breaking Harry out of his horrified stupor. “The name’s Tom.”

 

Riddle holds his hand across the bar in front of Greengrass and Harry lets out an imperceptible breath, steeling himself and clasping the hand in his own, meeting Riddle’s dark gaze. “Harry Potter,” he says, expecting hostility, but only getting a polite handshake and a nod in return.

 

It’s more unsettling than reassuring.

 

“You look as if you’ve been through a fright,” Riddle observes, rolling his cigar between his fingers; his other hand goes back to trailing lazy patterns up Greengrass’ bare leg through the parting in her cloak. Parkinson fills his glass, the ice clinking within the alcohol and making it swirl. “Thank you, darling,” Riddle says in a charismatic drawl, but Harry knows it’s all an act.

 

He’s just waiting for the ball to drop, anticipation filling his chest and sticking in his throat like something he can’t swallow.

 

“I fell down outside – in the storm,” Harry replies, picking up his own drink and using the liquid courage appropriately. “Must’ve hit my head. I’m fine though.”

 

“Ah, I see,” Riddle says, and then turns toward the barman. “I’ll have the veal stew, if it’s done, Walden.”

 

 _Of course_ Voldemort would eat baby animals.

 

Harry only wants this nightmare to be done with already. The Inferi were bad enough, but _this_ … This is a bit much.

 

He thought he was free when he escaped the cave.

 

The door to the pub bangs open behind them, letting in a torrent of rain and a soaked Charlie Weasley, dragging a half-conscious Draco Malfoy chained to his wrist. His other hand clutches a clinking sack, which is revealed to be full of golden trinkets and jewels as he sets the bag down and signals for the barman.

 

“I need a room – two beds if you have it,” Charlie says gruffly, pushing a couple Galleons across the bar. “Our car stalled a few miles up the road.”

 

Harry notices Riddle eyeing the sack full of treasure briefly, though the bag closes before Harry can get a good look at it. Charlie takes his room key from the barman too swiftly, stalking up the stairs and dragging along Malfoy like a ragdoll without so much as a greeting or another word. He isn’t the Charlie Weasley that Harry’s familiar with and he’s slowly trying to convince himself to grow accustomed to that.

 

He’s like a gutted lamp in this world. As if someone had reached inside him and plucked out everything important about him: Everything that’s _active_ and _needed_. The real Charlie Weasley would have acknowledged him and offered a friendly greeting. This one pays him no mind.

 

It’s nearly as unsettling as Voldemort sitting two barstools down from him.

 

“Mudblood Coalition scum,” Parkinson mutters into her drink.

 

“Neutrality, Pansy – remember?” Greengrass retorts, her voice barely a whisper, but it’s still sharp, as if reminding Parkinson of her place. “Unless you don’t fancy surviving.”

 

“Intelligent stance to take,” Riddle compliments, stabbing Greengrass’ fork through the mixed veg on her plate and taking a single salacious bite. “Choose sides and you give someone a reason to kill you,” he then says, leaning close to her and toying with her dark hair – playing such a deliberate part that it had Harry pushing his bowl of potato soup away for fear of being sick. “And there’s nothing worse than death.”

 

To say that Parkinson was mollified by their response is an understatement. Harry can only read into Riddle’s words: Horcruxes. ‘Nothing worse than death’… He’s having these delusions for a reason – if only he could figure out why.

 

Is he supposed to defeat Riddle to end the nightmare? Is that it? It seems too simple. A single spell from his wand could do that – Slicing Hex to the neck, _Avada Kedavra_ even. But the Voldemort of _his_ time – of _his_ world – would invent some horrifying twist or other. Something sinister. Something he can never truly guess until it hits him like a speeding train.

 

Like _this_. He’d mistakenly thought that the cave was the end of it, after all.

 

Another sip of Firewhiskey later and Harry’s discreetly clutching at his wand in his pocket.

 

Perhaps this is a test of Voldemort’s. Only those who won’t kill him would wake up? Or is it only those who _could_ kill him?

 

Harry’s not so certain. There are too many possibilities to be certain. Everyone, except for Charlie and the barman, is a Slytherin. That much he knows. Is that a hint? Slytherin… Parseltongue? No, that’s also too easy. But, perhaps _not_. Voldemort wouldn’t anticipate another parselmouth entering his cave and drinking his potion, would he?

 

He isn’t certain if it’s worth risking that just yet, but he leaves it in the back of his mind as a possibility. It’s not as if he can induce the language easily anyway.

 

Everything here is orchestrated by Voldemort – the cave; the poison; the potion; the delusion; the storm; the pub; probably the people. It’s all too clear, especially when two soot-covered bodies suddenly burst forth from the fireplace, the Floo practically exploding with green light. They quickly recover and circle each other, sputtering vitriol.

 

“I’m _not_ a member of the Resistance, Weasley!” the taller bloke protests, wiping the soot from his eyes.

 

“Bloody hell you aren’t! You were _following_ me for a reason!” the other bloke exclaims, sounding a lot like Ron and the bright ginger hair shining through the soot gives him away.

 

It’s like adding a well-aimed insult to an injury and Harry turns away from the scene Ron’s making, unsure if he can take it. No one else had been able to recognize him in his delusion, so why would Ron be any different?

 

But merely _imagining_ Ron not recognizing him is enough to crack at his heart just a little.

 

“Only to get out of there! Honestly! If being pureblood is a death sentence then _you_ should go as well! Blood-traitor or not, you’re just as guilty as I am. Might as well kill _yourself_.”

 

“No drawing vands in here!” Walden scolds sternly from behind the bar and two wands fly past Harry’s head as the older man disarms the squabbling boys with a minor amount of difficulty. “You vant to fight? Brave ze veather!”

 

“Circe, you Flooed us into the middle of fucking nowhere,” the tall soot-covered bloke sighs.

 

“ _I_ Flooed us? It’s _your_ fault we’re here!”

 

“You _both_ are idiots for trying to use the Floo network,” Greengrass cuts in, rolling her eyes at their petty row. “Why don’t you sit down and have a drink? War storms are supposed to bring about ‘peace’. Unless you’re so fixated on blood you can’t get your heads out of your arses?”

 

“No one asked _you_ ,” Ron testily retorts, though the sounds of his footsteps nearing makes Harry suck in a deep breath. He doesn’t even want to _look_ at Ron, not that Ron would notice that. He’s too busy cleaning his face off with a rag the barman passes him and his Floo-partner, who’s now clearly Blaise Zabini.

 

Another Slytherin and Gryffindor, and one who – as a cruel twist of fate – is his best and first friend. It tempts him to search for a few Galleons in his cloak, hire a room, and bury himself in a bed until he can’t wake up, but that’s probably what Riddle wants. Harry glances at the man in question, despite knowing he won’t see any signs of anything. Riddle’s too good to let his demeanor slip and he appears to be happy playing the type of bachelor who’d hire prostitutes for a romp in a seedy room above a pub.

 

The magical lights over the bar flicker as Riddle starts an introductory conversation with the newcomers, full of propriety and perfection. They don’t even notice the lights, but Harry assumes that they must be used to the war storms causing everything magical to go wonky. Walden _thunks_ a bottle of wine in front of Zabini, a pint in front of Ron, and taps at the lights restlessly with his wand, muttering in displeasure when it doesn’t help the wavering dimness. He, instead, pulls candles from underneath the bar, and heads into the back room to find more.  

 

While watching the old waif of a barman, Harry ruminates on Voldemort’s weaknesses, mostly to distract himself from Ron being so near without so much as a glimpse of their former friendship between them. The delusion is Voldemort’s design. Voldemort, who fears death and love and has a fondness for cruelty…

 

Well, _this_ is rather cruel.

 

Ron’s sitting around the corner of the bar, at the opposite end of Zabini, who’s chatting to Parkinson. “So you’re from Australia?” Ron asks, his freckled face curious and eager, like the first train ride. “How’s the war doing over there? I hear the whole country’s on fire because of it.”

 

“I’m from here, originally. And I’d rather not talk about Australia…” Harry trails off, glancing up at Ron and thanking Merlin for Firewhiskey for getting him this far. He takes the last sip from his glass, barely paying attention as Greengrass refills it without question. “I’m Harry, by the way. Harry Potter.”

 

“Ron Weasley,” Ron says with a nod, raising his pint of lager and drinking deeply from it. “Don’t suppose you have a room with an extra bed, do you? I’m a little short on–”

 

Harry feels a fond smile tug at his lips. “Not yet, no,” he interrupts, “but I’ll get a double, if I can. War makes everyone tight on money. I get it.”

 

“Thanks.” Ron’s bright grin is just as heartwarming as it was when he’d bought out snack trolley. “You’re an okay bloke. Could I buy you a pint?”

 

“Nah – I’m sorted.” Harry gestures to his glass, keeping an eye on Riddle in the corner of his vision. “Don’t worry about it. What… brings you here?”

 

Maybe if he found out more information about the people showing up in his delusion, he might gain a clue as how to escape. It’s clear that Parkinson and Greengrass are there at Riddle’s request, and Charlie came in with Malfoy and a sack of treasure – but Malfoy seemed to be there against his will. He’d mentioned their car had stalled, probably due to the storm effecting magical things. Is he supposed to use the car to escape?

 

The lights above them flicker far more dimly than before, nearing full darkness and the barman set about lighting candles, sticking them into holders to place around the bar.

 

“I was in Diagon, patrolling for the Resistance near my brothers’ shop. You know how there’ve been a lot of attacks lately in those parts – ransacking – I was keeping watch,” Ron says, pausing to drink from his pint and wipe the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

“Well, I found a group of them and they cornered me in _Eeylops_. I’m not stupid enough to take on that many of them, so I ran in the back room and tried getting the Floo to work. The Floo’s always fickle in the storm. I took extra powder in case I got stuck, like Zabini did,” Ron continues, glaring sullenly across the bar at the Slytherin boy and taking another drink. “Bloody tossbag blocked my way and we tried to go out this mad old codger’s fireplace we were stuck up, but he wasn’t having it. He had this… Muggle thing. I’ve heard that people’ve taken to using them when the storms flare up. Dad calls them Fire Wands. Burned through all of my Floo powder to get out of there. Would’ve made it home if Zabini wasn’t riding my arse and my wand wouldn’t work when I tried to blast him off me... Damn storm.”

 

Staring introspectively into his glass as he listens to Ron’s story, Harry’s brows raise. The war seems to be a lot more serious here, but it had barely even started in his own world, which causes him to wonder if this dream – or whatever it is – is prophetic: an eye to the future. There’s no way that his own mind could make up something like this. Riddle’s mind, maybe. Every detail Harry’s heard presses down on his brain and he aches to ask Riddle outright what it all bloody means.

 

“Think I could have my wand back any time soon?” Ron asks, seizing his chance to grab at the barman’s sleeve as he sets a candle holder in front of him.

 

Walden’s bright blue eyes narrow and he roughly pulls away from Ron’s grip. “You may haff it beck vhen I am zertain you von’t be bozhering anyvon, okay? Vould you be vanting anozher pint?”

 

“Yeah, yeah – fine – sure,” Ron mutters, finishing off his current glass with a mocking roll of his eyes. “When will you be ‘zertain’ I’m not ‘bozhering’ anyone then?”

 

“Vhen you display reazonable polite behafior, I zhink,” Walden replies, pouring and sliding another pint across the bar. “A zhank you, for starters.”

 

Harry barely hears Ron’s response, his ears picking up on Riddle’s conversation with Zabini.

 

“…they set it on fire. Our entire house – even the stables. Mum told me to take her jewelry case, sell everything, and run – find my father. When I looked back, they were dragging her body out to the swamp,” Zabini says, his knuckles white around his wine glass. “If it wasn’t for the storm, I’d be in Milan right now. We should have run earlier.”

 

“That’s terrible. I know exactly how you feel. It’s… difficult, losing a parent. I lost both of mine to the war,” Riddle replies comfortingly, taking a puff off his cigar and flicking ashes into a crystal ashtray the barman had supplied him. “But it gets easier as time goes on. Focusing on the present and not what you should have done usually speeds the healing process. Regret is the pathway to survivor’s guilt, as some say.”

 

Riddle’s words leave a disgusting sugary film in his mouth and Harry washes it away with another mouthful of Firewhiskey, grateful for the burning bitterness of it. He wants nothing more than to punch him in his lying face.

 

Lost his parents in the war… _pfft_.

 

Zabini nods, taking a deep drink from his wineglass. “In that case, do you know anyone who’d be willing to buy some heirlooms for a decent price? Mostly silver rings, necklaces, and hair pieces, but there’s an old gold locket – Goblin gold – that should be worth something and can be melted down.”

 

Harry’s eyes widen for a second and he quickly schools his expression, nodding to whatever Ron’s rambling about that he’s only half listening to (something involving the war that’s absolutely nothing like the war he knew).

 

Slytherin’s locket... That’s the thing – that’s the ticket out of here!

 

_‘…But how to get it from Zabini…’_

 

“I know a guy in London,” Greengrass says. “He’s very discreet. I could get you his address before you leave.”

 

It’s as if the locket realization is the catalyst for the next twist to Riddles games, and Harry’s heart wrenches as the door bangs open behind him, ushering in the haunted, panicked voice of his other best friend:

 

“Somebody help! She’s been hurt! I can’t…”

 

 

**-}{-}{-}{-**

₁ Rowling, J.K. (2005). Chapter 26: The Cave and Chapter 27: The Lightning-Struck Tower.  _Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince_  (US edition) (pp. 578-579). New York, NY: Scholastic Inc.

**-}{-}{-}{-**


	2. The Last Visitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** As always, many thanks go my betas, Rogue25, RAfan2421, and TheDarkLord, for all of their fantastic help! Also, many thanks to anyone who is reading! I must apologize for the short, less than lucid, chapter this time, but – soon – we’ll get to the super meat of the story. I want to update with two chapters next time, but I seem to have a bad track record with plans. I’m crossing my fingers in desperation. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Anything that you recognize, I do not own. There are a large number of writers, directors, actors, production companies, and publishing companies that deserve a lot of credit, including – but not limited to – J.K. Rowling, Larry Karaszewski, Scott Alexander, Matt Greenberg, Stephen King, Thomas Harris, Michael Cooney, Mikael Håfström, Peter Webber, James Mangold, John Cusack, Gaspard Ulliel, Dimension Films, Young Hannibal Productions, Carthago Films, Dino De Laurentiis Company, Sony Pictures, Warner Bros., Scholastic Books, Bloomsbury Books, and Raincoast Books. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All direct and paraphrased quotes are cited where applicable and general citations of my inspirations will be included at the end of this fic upon completion.

**-}{-}{-}{-**

**I. The Last Visitors**

**-}{-}{-}{-**

 

“Ginny!” Ron cries, jumping up from his seat and rushing toward the door. Turning around, Harry’s breath catches at the sight of Hermione, wet and dripping, her grey robes soaked in blood from the waist down, where Ginny’s body lies limp in her shaking arms. The redheaded girl’s tattered and torn clothes reveal deep gouges and gashes along her too-pale skin.

 

She looks like she’s barely breathing.

 

His girlfriend.

 

His… _not_ -girlfriend in this world.

 

Riddle is a _sadistic_ bastard.

 

Immediately coming to their aid, Ron scoops Ginny up into his arms and lays her out on one of the tables near the bar. “I need my wand,” he calls to the barman before turning back to Hermione. “Have you tried healing her?”

 

“Yes, but the storm…” The centre of Hermione’s forehead creases. “It didn’t work and it only made it worse when I tried Apparating – I might have splinched her a little.”

 

Harry quickly takes the bottle of dittany from the Healing Kit, glad that Walden left it on the bar, and half-stumbles to his feet, the alcohol haze hitting him hard for a second. He shouldn’t have drunk as much as he did. Steadying himself, he moves toward them as Hermione explains they got caught by a group of Snatchers.

 

One of them was armed with a garden rake.

 

He’s starting to suspect that Snatchers are a part of the Pureblood Resistance and he uncaps the bottle of dittany. “This should help,” he says, barely listening to the words coming out of his mouth and liberally pouring the silvery liquid over the worst of the wounds he could see. Her skin is ragged, littered with clotted blood. Streams of it drip onto the table below like a fatal patter of rain.

 

The potion did wonders for his own superficial scrape earlier; however, Ginny’s wounds are much deeper, some internal, and the dittany barely makes a dent in healing them. Harry’s heart sinks lower in his chest as the bottle’s emptied and the potion takes effect on the wounds, watching muscles knit over the exposed bone at her hip. But they’re still bleeding, deep open gouges turning into skin-deep cuts and muscle-deep gashes. Ron keeps rattling off every healing spell he knows, hardly getting a glow to form from his wand.

 

“She’ll need stitches,” Hermione says as Riddle joins them around the table, his fingers calmly digging through the Healing Kit cradled in his arms. “It’s no use trying to heal her with magic… the storm’s nearing its peak.”

 

“Here are some wound dressings,” Riddle says, plucking packaged sheets of sterile dittany-soaked gauze from the Healing Kit. “They should take care of the smaller cuts and nicks and there’s a potion for the pain...” He turns back toward the bar, setting the kit on the spare bit of table at Ginny’s side, smearing a pool of blood with it. “You don’t happen to have a sewing kit back there, do you, Walden?”

 

“I’ve one in our room,” Parkinson slurs after downing the rest of her glass, stumbling drunkenly from her stool. Riddle crosses over to her and gives her a hand of support, pulling her up the creaky stairway. Harry can’t help but gaze at them suspiciously, yearning to follow and watch Riddle like a hawk.

 

The entire situation makes his insides churn: helpful Riddle, gravely injured Ginny, and the sudden appearance of Hermione, who also doesn’t seem to know him either… Actually, she doesn’t seem to know Ron as well.

 

“Are you her brother? She said she had a lot of brothers,” Hermione asks, obviously trying to make light conversation. Her bloodstained hands hold the largest of the gashes across Ginny’s stomach closed while Ron works on covering the other wounds with gauze. He’s barely keeping himself together, his eyes constantly on the verge of tears as he rips her trousers and places squares of damp white cloths over the bleeding cuts marring her thighs.

 

Ginny’s chest shutters, her shallow breath rattling through her throat.

 

_‘This is a distraction,’_ Harry thinks.

 

Riddle wants to keep him away from Zabini’s locket – Slytherin’s locket – and set this up as a distraction, perhaps to make Harry overlook that Zabini ever mentioned the thing. It’s the only explanation as to why Riddle’s so willing to help; it draws his attention onto different matters that don’t involve his escape. Perhaps the Riddle in this delusion could _control_ the delusion…

 

But… no…

 

If Riddle could control the delusion, he could probably control what everyone says as well, which would mean that Zabini wouldn’t have let it slip that he had the locket.

 

_‘Back to square one.’_

Harry sighs, placing the useless empty bottle of dittany next to the Healing Kit. If he asks Zabini about the locket now – offering to buy it off him – it’d be ridiculously insensitive, not that the Slytherin boy’s jumping to help Ginny. He’s still seated at the bar near Greengrass, watching with a vaguely aloof expression on his face. The flickering of the dim magical lights and the glow from the candles makes the wine in his glass shine like blood as he tips it back into his mouth and pours more from the bottle.

 

Walden had disappeared into the back room, ostensibly to look for more potions and an extra Healing Kit and Harry can hear him digging around – glasses shifting and clinking – as Riddle returns. Parkinson tromps down the stairs behind him, clutching the railing.

 

Brushing past Harry, Riddle’s movements are swift and precise. He unfurls a small skein of thread and pokes the end through the eye of a small needle. When he tears Ginny’s shirt clean open and starts stitching the wound without any word of warning, Ron incredulously asks, “Are you a Healer?”

 

_‘Quite the opposite,’_ Harry can’t help but think, his lip curling at the irony of it all. Once upon a time, Riddle had tried to kill her. Now he’s stitching her up.

 

Everything here feels like it’s upside down and completely askew.

 

“No,” Riddle answers, his brow furrowed in concentration, his fingers tying off stitch after stitch.

 

Hermione helps him by keeping pressure where it’s needed, staving off most of the bleeding from the largest of Ginny’s wounds. “That’s… pretty good. Where’d you learn how to do this?”

 

Jerking his head toward Harry in a gesture, Riddle casually intones, “About where he’s standing.”₁

 

He ties a jagged stitch over Ginny’s naval, blood bubbling up from under the thread, and steadily continues threading the needle through her skin, joining it together. “We’ll need to disinfect these. Go ask Walden for his strongest vodka. It won’t be as effective as a Cleansing Charm, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

 

Ron shifts on his feet, noticeably reluctant to let go of his sister’s wilted hand. “I’ll do it,” Harry says softly to Ron, passing him and stepping up to the bar.

 

“Oi, Walden,” Harry calls, sounding far less panicked than he should have been, or would’ve been, if this wasn’t a delusion. “Riddle needs your strongest vodka.”

 

The barman emerges a minute later from the back room, his shoulders covered in dust and a small square bottle in his hands. “I zhink zhis is ze strongest, zhough I may haff eighty percent of somezhing beck zhere.”

 

Harry grasps at the neck of the bottle with a quick, “Thanks,” as Zabini starts badgering Walden for a room, shoving a tiny stack of Galleons across the bar. He watches the key being passed between them and hurriedly sets the bottle next to Riddle, sensing his only chance to get the Slytherin boy alone.

 

“Wait,” Harry says, catching up to Zabini, who’s clutching his wineglass and bottle one-handed and already nearly half-way up the stairs. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in selling some of your jewelry to me, if you don’t mind… I mean, I’d like to have a look at it.”

 

Zabini’s dark honey-coloured gaze searches him, dragging across him like a scrutinizing blade from his head to his toes. “What’s your name again?” he asks, arching a brow.

 

“Harry Potter.”

 

“Forgive me then, _Harry_ , if I may seem insensitive, but I doubt that I’d have anything that you could afford,” Zabini dismissively replies, eyeing Harry’s dirty trainers and Dudley’s old ill-fitted trousers under his cloak and wrinkling his nose.

 

“Hold on,” Harry retorts before Zabini can turn to leave, tamping down his impatience and irritation. “Just because I don’t flaunt my money doesn’t mean I don’t have any. If I went down the wrong street in London looking like _you_ , I’d probably get mugged in a second. I only want to see if you have anything worth my time.”

 

Zabini hesitates, his arrogant expression wavering. “Give me your wand then,” he says with a sigh, holding out his hand and moving his room key between his thumb and forefinger.

 

Harry’s brows furrow. “…Why?”

 

“ _You_ were the one who mentioned ‘mugging’ and I’m not stupid. Either you give me your wand and I let you take a look, or you’re out of luck.”

 

“Alright,” Harry agrees, knowing that using his wand is probably futile anyway from the evidence he’s seen downstairs. As he passes Zabini his wand and silently follows him to his room, he refrains from mentioning that there are other ways to mug someone and do harm. The Snatchers were armed with rakes to combat the war storm’s effect on their magic.

 

“You should wash your hands first,” Zabini suggests, tapping at the flickering sconce on the wall of his not-so-seedy room and removing his cloak, throwing it over an armchair by the window. “Shan’t have you mucking up my mum’s jewels.” Pouring himself another half-glass of wine from the bottle he had sat on the sill, Zabini stares at him expectantly.

 

Oh, right, Ginny’s blood… Harry heads toward the loo and leaves the door ajar while he rinses off his hands. He doesn’t want to let Zabini out of his sight any more than he does Riddle. From his vantage point, he watches Zabini tug a large, ornate jewelry roll from the expanded pocket in his robes. Carefully, he spreads it out it across the edge of the large bed at the centre of the room. Even under fluctuating magical lights, the jewelry glitters spectacularly and Harry’s heart races in anticipation when he spots what looks like a golden locket next to a row of silver tiaras and hair combs.

 

His ticket out.

 

Only… it doesn’t seem the same, upon closer inspection.

 

Harry stands before the jewels, his hands still damp from hastily drying them and the spark of hope inside him fades. Zabini’s locket is perfectly round and the one he remembers grabbing from the bottom of the basin was oval.

 

It’s not Slytherin’s locket.

 

Unfortunately, he has to keep up his façade, so he plucks a ring from the roll and holds it up to the light. “Do you have any… magical jewelry? Cursed? Or with powers of their own?” he asks, trying to think of a way out of the conundrum he’d gotten himself into. It’s not as if he has enough money in his pocket to buy anything or he _would_ just to keep up the pretense.

 

Zabini shrugs, sipping at his glass of wine. Harry’s wand is in the boy’s other hand. “Some of it’s Goblin made, but if they have any special powers, I can’t say. I know none of it’s cursed. My mum wore every single piece.”

 

“Oh… too bad,” Harry says, feigning disappointment as he sat the ring back into its slot. “This is nice, but I mostly collect cursed jewelry – cursed objects – but sometimes I make allowances for magical jewelry if it has an interesting history.”

 

“Should have mentioned that before – would’ve saved me the trouble,” Zabini dryly replies, leaning against the bedpost and holding out Harry’s wand with a glint of challenge in his eyes. It’s like he’s daring him to make a move and steal off with the jewelry.

 

A small smile forms at Harry’s lips and he pockets his wand, moving past the tall Slytherin. “I doubt you’d want anyone overhearing if you _were_ carrying around cursed objects. I know _I_ wouldn’t…” he says smoothly and then turns back toward Zabini, pausing with his fingers on the doorknob. “Thanks for letting me look though.”

 

He doesn’t wait for Zabini to reply and dejectedly makes his way down the stairs, the dimming magical sconces lighting his path causing the air appear a bit hazy.

 

While he was busy perusing Zabini’s jewelry, Riddle must’ve finished with Ginny’s stitches and they’re in the middle of moving her to the sofa in front of the fireplace. Checking her pulse once she’s settled, Riddle announces that it feels much stronger and Ron pours a dose of pain-relieving potion into Ginny’s parted lips, making her splutter in her unconscious state.

 

“I don’t know about you,” Riddle says, straightening up and clapping Ron on the back with a bloodied hand, “but I could use another drink. Walden – a round of Firewhiskey for everyone! On me.”

 

The barman passes them damp towels and beverages, the former of which Harry declines – having already washed up – but he takes a drink from his glass, renewing his buzz but careful not to overdo it. It calms him enough to think more clearly – to keep the hope going that he’d get out of there. He wonders if the locket he’s looking for is in that massive bag full of treasure Charlie and Malfoy brought in, or possibly hidden around the bar somewhere. He’s not entirely certain if the locket is what he’s supposed to look for, but it’s his best alternative to killing Riddle.

 

Glancing over at the suave bastard, Harry tries not to let any unpleasantness cloud his features. Riddle appears to have made fast friends with Ron and Hermione and that only serves to further grate at his nerves. He should’ve expected no less. Riddle’s always been good at gaining people’s trust and it’s no different in the delusion than the real world.

 

“What did you want with Zabini?” Ron asks, keeping an eye on the prone form of his sister as he turns toward him.

 

Harry shrugs a shoulder. “Nothing really. He mentioned he had some jewelry to sell and it didn’t look like he was coming back so I thought I’d catch him. He didn’t have anything I was interested in. I should’ve stayed and helped.”

 

“Eh, it’s fine,” Ron says, waving away the apology. “S’not like you know her or anything. It’s good of you and Tom – and Hermione – to help at all. If it was only me, she’d probably be dead.”

 

_‘S’not like you know her or anything…’_

 

The sentence rips at the centre of his chest, but he pushes the feeling away, leaving a faint taste of heaviness behind.

 

“Have you ever considered going into Healing, Tom?” Greengrass asks, draping herself in front of Riddle and grabbing at one of his now-clean hands, though his sleeves are still soaked in blood. She teases her fingers along his, suggestive to the core. “You’d make a fine Healer with hands like these.”

 

Riddle grants her a half-smile. “Perhaps. But then I wouldn’t get much time to spend with you lovely ladies and that would be a tragedy.”

 

He could understand Greengrass’ sickening act – she’s paid to stroke the ego of her client, but _Riddle_ … It makes Harry want to retch over their laps and his eyes rove over the main room of the pub, desperately searching for any sign of a golden locket.

 

“Hey – uh, Walden? – I think one of your cauldrons is burning,” Ron says, trying to get the attention of the barman, who’s polishing wineglasses and chatting quietly with Hermione about how he came to Britain to look for an old friend. The redhead gestures exaggeratedly toward the line of pots, still steaming behind the bar.

 

Cutting off his conversation, Walden’s eyebrow quirks and he goes to inspect the pots, shifting lids. “No zhere not. It’s perfectly fine. Vould you like some stew?”

 

Ignoring the barman’s question, Ron’s face screws up in confusion and his nostrils flare. “Well _something’s_ burning – can’t you smell that?”

 

Harry sniffs, inhaling a faint hint of air that turns acrid in the back of his throat as he breathes deep. “Yeah… what _is_ that?”

 

“S’only the fireplace. Always smells like tha’ when you come in with a heap of Floo powder,” Parkinson slurs into her drink.

 

Getting up from his stool, Ron follows his nose, his feet carrying him toward the stairs. “No, it’s stronger over here.”

 

Parkinson huffs as Harry stands and joins Ron, the pungent smell of what seems like… burnt _hair_ getting thicker. “The _fireplace’s_ over there,” she points out and he has to admit that Floo powder smells rather nasty when used in excess, so that could’ve been it.

 

“What are you lot _burning_? Smells like flaming manure,” Harry hears the coughing voice of Zabini yell, his footfalls heavy on his way down the steps, waving his cloak and wafting a stream of smoke with him.

 

Harry’s eyes widen as he looks upwards, where wispy black smoke plumes and curls against the dim light fixtures in the stairwell, so dense the cream colour of the ceiling is nearly lost. How did he not notice that before when he came down?

 

Behind him, he hears glass breaking and turns is head to see Walden jumping across the bar. He rushes past them, muttering what sounds like German curses under his breath, and Harry trails after him on the stairs, his wand out and his cloak held up against his nose to block out the smoke.

 

When Walden kicks in one of the doors up ahead, Harry fights to keep from gagging as thick clouds of black smoke pour out of the room. The scent of burnt hair and fetid meat that comes with it feels as if it’s seeping into his skin and his eyes water as he struggles for clean air to breathe. But smoke rises, he remembers. Moving to his knees, he senses Ron behind him and halts when he sees smoke-screened flames beyond the cracked, broken door, lighting up the room. Walden had opened the windows, bringing in a wash of rain and clearing out just enough of the smoke to see.

 

The heat in the room claws at Harry’s skin and the flames crackle and roar in his ears as he crawls to the loo, rolling out of the way of the panicked barman, who scurries by him with a large vase full of water. Lending a helping hand, Harry grabs at the mop bucket on the floor next to the toilet and tips out the cleaning supplies, filling it with the running water from the shower tap. In the next room, he can hear Ron trying out _Aguamenti_ a few times before giving up and he nearly gets stuck with Walden in the door frame of the bathroom in his urgency.

 

Trading Walden the bucket for the vase, Harry keeps filling – sloshing water down his front – and shouts to Ron over the sound of the fire in the next room, “See if you can find more buckets or whatever we can use!”

 

As he refills the bucket Walden had traded back for the full vase, he sees Hermione and a few of the others carting large vases of water from the corridor and he feels relief flood through him.

 

They might get this fire out with everyone helping, but something inside him _knows_ that Riddle’s behind this.

 

 

**-}{-}{-}{-**

₁ _Identity._ Directed by James Mangold. By Michael Cooney. Performed by John Cusack. USA: Sony Pictures, 2003. DVD.

**-}{-}{-}{-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and please review!


	3. The Surge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU, Post-Cave Scene in HBP. Harry thought he was free when he escaped the cave and he was so very wrong. This is a delusion – a nightmare. It has to be. But to what end? Perhaps everything is not at all what it seems…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** As always, many thanks go my betas, Rogue25, RAfan2421, and TheDarkLord, for all of their fantastic help! Also, many thanks to anyone who is reading/following. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Anything that you recognize, I do not own. There are a large number of writers, directors, actors, production companies, and publishing companies that deserve a lot of credit, including – but not limited to – J.K. Rowling, Larry Karaszewski, Scott Alexander, Matt Greenberg, Stephen King, Thomas Harris, Michael Cooney, Mikael Håfström, Peter Webber, James Mangold, John Cusack, Gaspard Ulliel, Dimension Films, Young Hannibal Productions, Carthago Films, Dino De Laurentiis Company, Sony Pictures, Warner Bros., Scholastic Books, Bloomsbury Books, and Raincoast Books. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All direct and paraphrased quotes are cited where applicable and general citations of my inspirations will be included at the end of this fic upon completion.

**-}{-}{-}{-**

**III. The Surge**

**-}{-}{-}{-**

 

 

Harry’s heart jumps to the base of his throat as he looks at what’s left in the steaming aftermath. His entire form feels covered with the sharp scent that lingers from the fire like a physical thing, weighing him down, and he wishes he could scrape the taste of it from the inside of his mouth. The magical lights on the walls are scarcely bright enough to see between the jarring bursts of lightning from outside, but he knows what’s there at the other end of the room:

 

Two charred, twisted bodies. One in the bed nearest to the wall and one on the floor next to it – mere blackened humanoid shapes of flesh chained together. There’s a scorched knife dug into one of their wrists, as if they’d tried to cut free from it, to no avail.

 

Harry’s almost thankful he can’t tell the bodies apart – he’d hate to imagine how Ron would react if he knew that’s his brother he’s looking at. “Blimey,” the redhead gasps, hesitating from stepping closer.

 

They all gather around the wreckage of the room, dark ashes sticking in their hair and clinging to the damp layer of sweat on their exposed skin, streaking in places where they had wiped it away.

 

“It vas ze radiator,” Walden concludes with an uncertain air of finality. “Zhey’re not supposed to run on magic, I zhink. Muggle invention. And vith ze var storm… wery unstable. Like ze lights.”

 

“Have you had this problem before?” Hermione shrewdly questions, her eyes narrowing and her hands on her hips. Bright flashes of lightning in the windows behind her give her the silhouette of a mad scientist, her wild bushy hair practically standing on end.

 

Walden shakes his head. “No – no. Never. But, ze… Right here–” The barman moves forward and points to the dark square lump of metal that’s the remains of the radiator next to the bed, where a seared uneven crust of _something_ is adhered to the side of it. The rest of that _something_ is a meagre pile of ash on top. “Somevon set zhis here. It gets wery hot, even wiff magic. Ze magic may haff surged und ze radiator started it on fire.”

 

Picking up the mostly-unscathed sack of treasure, Greengrass sifts through it, wiping sodden ash off the edge of a gilded charger. “This has the Malfoy family crest on it.”

 

“Yeah, tha’s Draco…” Parkinson trails off with a sniff after emerging from the bottle of Firewhiskey she brought up with her from the bar. She was completely useless the entire time they tried to get the fire out. “I didn’ recognize the man ‘e came in with. Some Coalition bastard.”

 

“Coalition ‘bastard’?” Ron mutters defensively, glaring toward the Slytherin girl. “Got something against that, _Parkinson?_ ”

 

Harry’s brows shoot up at Ron’s suddenly threatening demeanor, but he refrains from getting involved, knowing that it wouldn’t be welcome. To Ron, he’s just a stranger in passing. It makes him wish he could go back in his own war, with Voldemort and horcruxes and his best friends and Dumbledore.

 

“She’s drunk,” Greengrass says, plunking the sack back down onto the floor and stepping in front Parkinson like a shield. “Don’t mind her. Still a few kinks to work out on the neutrality front…”

 

“That’s no excuse! It’s people like _her_ who get people like _me_ **killed!** Like that bloke!” Ron shouts, pointing his finger indecisively toward the two burnt corpses. “I, for one, bloody well _doubt_ this was an accident – Malfoy did this on _purpose!_ It’s what _you lot_ do best, isn’t it?”

 

“MY lot _–_ _you scummy little–_ ”

 

The bottle of Firewhiskey in Parkinson’s hand hits the ground with a glassy clink against the singed carpet, glugging its remaining contents all over the floor. Launching herself at Ron, Parkinson stumbles ungracefully, quickly caught in Greengrass’ grip, the other girl’s hand muffling her angered insults.

 

Sharing uncomfortable glances toward each other, everyone else in the room looks poised to either intervene in the fight or bolt from the room.

 

“LET ME GO!” Parkinson shouts through Greengrass’ hand, her limbs struggling against the arms holding her back and her feet kicking out with intoxicated precision. She reminds Harry of a cat Dudley had thrown into a puddle when he was five.

 

“Not until you calm down!” Greengrass scolds, wrestling against her and dragging her out the ash- stained doorframe with an apologetic look thrown in Riddle’s direction.

 

Harry can hear her incoherent screeches all the way down the corridor before her shrill voice disappears behind a closed door and he shifts awkwardly on his feet.

 

“So…” Hermione says, clearing her throat, “you think this _wasn’t_ an accident?” Stepping across the room and hovering over the dead bodies, she nudges the knife sticking out of the wrist of the body on the floor with her foot. “Maybe he was… stabbed?”

 

In the corner of his vision, Harry spots a familiar bottle of potion that he knows all-too-well sitting on the scorched nightstand: Dreamless Sleep. It’s plucked off the table by Riddle’s fingers momentarily and then set back down as Riddle’s brow crumples in thought. Harry could almost be convinced by it if he wasn’t certain that Riddle had something to do with this whole thing.

 

It’s all to distract him from getting to that locket and Harry’s eyes graze over the bag of treasure on the floor, ripe to pick through.

 

“In ze wrist? Zhat wouldn’t kill him,” Walden says. “ _I_ zhink–”

 

Crouching in front of the bag, Harry digs his arms into it as they all start harping on theories and gesturing wildly about how the whole ‘accident’ could have been murder, Ron coming up with the most outlandish of the explanations. ‘ _If only they knew the truth…’_ As he reaches the bottom of the sack, not finding a single locket, disappointment pierces his nerves and he brushes his soiled hands off onto his damp – equally filthy – trousers.

 

Riddle is in the middle of explaining his theory of what happened and Harry watches him carefully, hiding his disbelieving glare.

 

“See how this one looks like he died sleeping?” Riddle says with innocent speculation sprawling across his features. His hands motion to the blackened body on the bed. “It’s possible that he had taken Dreamless Sleep. It completely knocks you out; a train could run over you and you wouldn’t wake. I wouldn’t be surprised if both of them had taken it. But… perhaps, the person on the floor took a smaller measure and woke up, noticing the fire. My best guess is that this –” Riddle gestures to the charred body on the floor, “– is the prisoner of the person in the bed and, maybe, he couldn’t find the key so he tried to cut his hand off to escape from the fire – thus the knife in the wrist.” He pauses, straightening his posture and putting on an air of hesitancy and sympathy. “I don’t believe I have to mention that he was… unsuccessful.”

 

His explanation makes Harry’s insides itch like a sore, healing bruise, which is only worsened by the somewhat persuaded looks on both Hermione and Walden’s faces.

 

Not only had Riddle murdered Charlie and Malfoy, he made it look like an accident that he could rationalize with unsettling ease. But he _knows_ Voldemort. Everyone else, on the other hand, has no idea that Tom Riddle is a vast arsenal and _this_ is just **_one_** of his many weapons.

 

“I still think one of them killed the other one,” Ron stubbornly replies, his arms crossing over his chest. “What do _you_ think?”

 

The question is directed at Harry and he musters a shrug. “I’m not sure,” he lies, sneaking a glance toward Riddle. His throat is unbearably dry – from the Firewhiskey and the fire – parched in a sharp way that makes his voice jagged. “It could’ve been an accident or something… else. It’s not like we’ll ever know what _really_ happened – everything’s too burnt to tell.”

 

Everything _except_ for the sack of treasure, and the bottle of Dreamless Sleep…

 

Harry’s eyes narrow in thought as Ron mulls over his words with a scowl and they start filing out into the corridor.

 

The Dreamless Sleep backs up Riddle’s explanation of things, but the sack of treasure… why wasn’t it hiding under a bed or in the wardrobe? Why was it sitting out, just on the border of harm’s way? The contents were covered in ash, which makes Harry think the bag was open during the fire, or else the treasure would’ve been mostly unscathed and protected by the burlap, even as singed as it was.

 

It’s possible that the locket _was_ in there – that Charlie and Malfoy were murdered for a reason other than distraction – only _now_ …

 

_‘Riddle has it.’_

 

Harry’s stomach jolts uneasily, knowing it wouldn’t be simple to steal it. What would he do? Sneak into his room while he’s sleeping? Does Riddle even sleep? Also, knowing him, he probably has the blasted locket on him. It’s not as if there’s a cave full of Inferi readily available to stash it in.

 

He’s stirred from his thoughts when a door to one of the rooms bangs open to his left and Parkinson staggers past him irritably, a towel wrapped around her naked body.

 

… _Almost_ naked body.

 

Harry’s eyes draw to the very locket he’s been looking for, resting against Parkinson’s perky towel-covered breasts, and his heart thuds against the walls of his chest like a moth at a light fixture. The emerald ‘S’ curving along the oval pendant is front and centre and _instantly_ recognizable. _Slytherin’s locket_. Riddle put the bloody thing on _her!_

 

He’s not sure if that’s better or worse.

 

Getting it from her would be _just_ as tricky, though it would possibly involve less homicide…

 

“Oi!” Parkinson yells none too gracefully at the back of the barman’s head, making him pivot on his feet. “The hot water s’not working. Think you could fix it?”

 

With a tired sigh, Walden wipes at his forehead, further streaking soot over his skin. “It’s ze var storm, Miss Parkinson. Vee haff to rely on ze Muggle vater heater – vonce ze hot vater is gone, you haff to vait for more.”

 

“…For ‘ow long?”

 

“Forty minutes ze last time it heppened. Maybe more. Zhere is not much I can–”

 

“I have to wait _forty minutes_ for a _shower?_ ” she interjects, swaying tipsily on her feet. “But _s’ **your**_ fault I got like this!” Her fists bunch where they’re holding up her towel and unclench the moment Riddle moves to her side, his hand resting on her lower back and affecting her like a calming draught.  

 

“It’s fortunate that we’re staying somewhere converted and not _The_ _Three Broomsticks_ ,” he says smoothly, directing a genial smile at the barman. “They don’t have a Muggle water heater to rely on when the heating charms malfunction.”

 

If Riddle hadn’t lingered in the corridor, Harry would’ve taken the chance and jumped and snatched the locket from Parkinson’s neck. Unfortunately, he’s still not certain it’s his ticket out of there, or he would have done it regardless of Riddle’s presence.

 

It’s got to be either kill Riddle, or get the locket – or both. Considering the circumstances, _both_ is looking like the most probable outcome.

 

Figuring out exactly how to do it, however, is the challenging part. _Especially_ with the war storm going on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and please review! Since I'm going through a massive case of writer's block, which I'm trying to get over by writing this fic, I'd highly appreciate *any* constructive criticism/review. Thank you again!


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